Chapter 2

Moving forward, I want my disease to be my companion,
so she can help me write my canon.

Eclipse

I borrowed the eyes of an eclipse,
to wink Eden under the table,

I saw a secret, which is to say –
I didn’t see it:

to borrow eyes from not a friend, but Mother
Nature,

to see what I can’t see unseen.

Gunshot romance

There’s a girl sitting next to me,
belongs in a Tarantino movie.
But I’m not dodging bullets;
I’m only dodging a longshot kiss.

How Terrifying…

How terrifying death is
in the middle of a thought.
My eyes wanted to slam shut
such that they could defend
against what I know not.

Kindness

Sometimes human kindness
            to one another
is so short
                        as to be nonexistent.

Nausea

There is nothing more repulsive
than the smiling photo of a politician
in their ad,
those papers glued to surfaces many,
like a parasite —
those who themselves are but a surface plenty.

Waterfall

I want my thoughts
to descend
like a waterfall,
such that the droplets form
an image of you.

When…

When every word you’ve used
           Too much —
It’s a hollowed word,
          Sans thought.

Word Map of a Cat on a Mat

Putting the indexes out,
I saw the cat,
Sleeping with torso outstretched
While I, unheimlich, rushed to and fro;
On a mat, it sat — in peace,
And I said sighing, what I want is that.

Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses. He has published over 150 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 80 different journals. He loves to travel.

delta cockroaches

Plumbing lines should really
be treated with or treated to
video clips of Michael Jackson
from the days of the Jackson
5. Except. The browser does

not currently recognize any of
the video formats on offer since
YouTube has **completely re-
moved**its Flash player code
from its site. I load up my boat

with pretzels & set sail for the
Azores in the hope that hedge-
rows of blue hydrangeas will
recognize a kindred stranger.
I Want You Back propels me

along even though it’s on its
last legs; but, at sea, it doesn’t
matter all that much. A mael-
strom beckons to me, but my
pretzels kick in & minimize it

in the bottom left hand corner
of the screen where it can whirl
impotently. Finally I reach the
outskirts of the harbour. A limo
is waiting. It moonwalks me in.

axing proves

You do not have to settle for
the town mahjong hero — here,
let me take the keyboard. Lady-
bug y Cat Noir have a past &
revisionist views of events, but
even the most skeptical analyst
does not believe all the goodwill
has been completely wiped out.

So, there is nothing to forgive. The
protagonist enters a new world
where early voting polling places
are not yet available. She is still
quite mobile but gets tired easily.
Is three weeks of it too long?

A line from Lionel Ritchie

She hid behind a tree as a car
drove past. Sometimes these
things just happen, especially
when antacids aren’t working

anymore. Nothing I could say
would help. The surrounding
landscape vanished as the latest
sci-fi series was streamed, ad-

free, on to the quarry walls. The
contextual translation could be
anything you wanted, within or
without your comfort zone. A

boy fell from the balcony. CCTV
footage captured a group of neigh-
bours coming to his rescue. This
Pin was discovered by Prissy Duh.

Le Grand Siècle

Crazy parties at night
in the gardens of
the Summer Palace. Morning
comes, & the crows come
to pick over the remains.
We go for a walk,
compare notes
on the paintings inside. The
Fragonards. The Watteaux.
Reminisce about that
string quartet we heard
playing in the small salon
off the Rue des Brigands
a few evenings ago. There
your heels clicked against
the cobblestones. Here on
the lawn they are silent;
but the crows
pecking at the plates
replicate the noise as
I remember it. Robbers
Street. What did I
steal from you? What you
from me? No demanding
notes, though we paid
the ransoms anyway.

Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry since 1959. He is the author of over fifty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. His most recent books are a collection of visual pieces, The Comedians, from Stale Objects de Press; turning to drones, from Concrete Mist Press; & turpentine from Luna Bisonte Prods.

Change of Seasons: October 2019

We filled the birdfeeders three weeks ago.
Against the yellow wood
We can see they have not gone down
At all.
We may wind up spreading the seed
On the ground
For the chipmunks and squirrels,
Who will consider it their due.
Forty degrees on the porch this morning.
In town orange lights set out for Halloween,
Evidence of lives that go on
When we are not here.
The somber beauty of leaves turning
In the rain.
Along the shore
The water pipe lies atop the ground.
The town will turn it off next week.
The birdfeeders are still full.
The birds have headed out
And so will we.

Christmas 2019

Late December. We have gathered
For a Christmas concert.
The town band—amateurs, neighbours—
Plays O Holy Night.
A new generation has come
To Golden Pines. They share greetings
As though they knew each other well.
Our crowd, in the ninth decade of life,
Ranks thinned,
Small signs of things not working well,
Joints, numbness,
This year more walkers leaned up
Against the wall.

That they are amateurs is clear enough,
Except for the first trumpet,
The song they play once scorned by the church:
Our hearts are gladdened,
The room is made to glow
At this particular Christmas
In this particular year.

The Wrong Sweater

At stores this morning
Long lines to exchange or return:
Too large, too small, too green, too blue,
Most simply inconvenienced
By the innocent errors of loved ones.
But the day after Christmas
Also brings out the worst in us,
Holds up to ridicule and contempt
The kindness of others—
What on earth made them think
I would ever wear that,
In every family distant kin
You never see who still send the children
Outgrown games they never play.

Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.

Poetry Drawer: At Exit 50; The Shade Oak; Wedding Song by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: REQUIEM FOR A DEAD COMPUTER by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: Turnover: Foliage Tour by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: At The Post Office by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: Probabilities of Living by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: New Organ by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: In The ICU: Lakefront Property: Prognosis by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: The Bartender’s Tale: Approaching 82 by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: Golden Shovel Exercise: Chateau Frontenac by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: Rush Week: Knowledge by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: The Trouble with Pronouns: Basket Weave by Robert Demaree

If they were going to put me in the nuthouse
I was going to need my collection of Bertita Harding novels
They had power–
the stories of these heroes would keep me alive:
Karl and Zita of Hungary
Austria’s Franz Joseph and Elizabeth
the Mexicans Maximillian and Carlotta
Duse and Da, whose tale age cannot wither
and the glowing story of Clara Shumann

but my wife, a Lithuanian
whose hands were strong
from decades of milking cows
tore them from my grasp
and shoved them into the Fat Boy stove
where I heard them crackling in anguish
as she held me away

I would have burned my hands retrieving them
and not cared at all

All I could save was my favorite
the story of the Braganzas of Brazil
who created independence
from the Empire of Portugal
which I had hidden
in my patterned brocade vest
which I wore over my cummerbund

The hell with you all
I was never cut out to be a farmer
When they release me I’ll take Bertita
on the open road
and together we’ll find a green paradise
something like Ireland

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. His new poetry collection was published in 2019, The Arrest of Mr Kissy Face. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.

Inky Interview: Author Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois from Denver, Colorado

Flash In The Pantry: Serotonin Reuptake by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Cooking Shows by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Still Wet by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Loch by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Photogenic by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Microwave by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Granite by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Trick by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Coal by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Petition by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Poetry Slam by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Hygiene by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Between Jobs & Not Me by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Mea Culpa by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Stoned by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Five Hundred SCUBA Divers by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Love Bird by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Wailing Wall by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Adventure Travel: Glue: God Created Fledglings: Winds of Santa Ana: Janice M by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Buzz by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

The Action Figure is Alive

After the book “Midlife Action Figure” (2019) by Chris Banks.

It starts with a close call,
the wiener dog’s
weaponized hindquarters
shimmying on the rug.

Our hero escapes
under the sofa,
waits until it’s safe
to make his way
to the laundry room.

He finds refuge
in a clean pile
of sheets.

The rumble of the dishwasher
lulls the weary warrior
to sleep.

*

The next morning,
he wakes to the sound
of a gouged mouse
screeching from a rattrap.

Can’t save squeaky now.

Sitting up, he counts
the bees buzzing
around his head,
feels dizzy, decompresses
back into the basket.

Mutant boy idles,
replete in the linens
until the housekeeper
shuffles over, lifts the lid
in full Yoda mode.

“Sunken treasure, you are!”
she exclaims,
and if the lionheart could,
he would smile back.

Snowball Effect

The office pet eats butter
off the kitchen counter,
makes the rat jealous.

Mom calls, tells you
she’s getting a divorce.

The VP’s favourite
seduction tactic is limerick.
You’re already surfing
for a new job
in a stolen boat –

anyone asks,
you’re babysitting
for a friend.

Mrs. Berger changes
the report deadline
from a week
to three hours from now.

The kicker is that the research
must be typed blindfolded.

Another catch is
the building is under fire,
bulletproof trolls with Uzis.

Chunks of concrete
dislodge, crack
of the icecap.

Hide the penguin
under your desk.

Better to apply
the adult diaper now,
meet your maker later –
but soon!

To think, last night
was spent eating
cheese puffs in front
of the TV, naked.

“Normal behaviour” is
training for a shootout,
*Tyler Durden sermons
blaring in the background.

Turn the lights off
before closing the door,
conservation before annihilation.

*Tyler Durden is the main character in the 1996 novel “Fight Club” by Chuck Palahniuk. He is a ringleader who brainwashed his club members to commit crimes across the city.

Samuel Strathman is a poet, author, educator, and editor at Cypress: A Poetry Journal.  Some of his poems have appeared in Dreams Walking, Feed Magazine, and Mineral Lit Mag.  His first chapbook, “In Flocks of Three to Five” will be released later this year by Anstruther Press.  

I grabbed a can of wasp spray
from my wife’s hand
She was a farm girl and stronger than me
She grabbed the can back and hit me in the head with it

Wasps had colonized the attic of our farmhouse
the one my granddad had built in 1918
and our love was being overwhelmed
by the difference in our reactions

I found the wasps’ buzzing comforting
consoling
I heard messages in their drone
messages designed for me alone
telling me about the true nature of the universe

My wife said that if the noise didn’t stop
she was going to fall off the wagon—
was I too stupid to understand?

Yet now that she’d hit me with the can of wasp spray
she couldn’t use it
She had created an inner barrier
that she didn’t understand
but was unable to surmount

She went outside without saying anything
got into her old Pontiac
and headed down the road
I knew she was going to the meth house

Whether she was going to do meth
or just fuck the meth maker
I didn’t know

But I couldn’t pursue her
I was too engaged
in listening to the wasps’ messages

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. His new poetry collection was published in 2019, The Arrest of Mr Kissy Face. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.

Inky Interview: Author Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois from Denver, Colorado

Flash In The Pantry: Serotonin Reuptake by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Cooking Shows by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Still Wet by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Loch by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Photogenic by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Microwave by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Granite by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Trick by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Coal by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Poetry Slam by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Irene

Irene took quickly to the scene,
Looking to discover new things,
Looking to be places she’d never been.

Irene quickly became a yes woman all right,
Saying yes to the men’s aberrant advances
And yes to the women’s aimless advice.

Irene took quickly to saying yes
Becoming addicted to their requests,
A few more track marks on her arms,

A few more heads up her skirt.
Irene quickly became a no woman all right.
She became no woman all right.

Splinters

I have found solace in this fluid state, this comforting womb,
This escape from the reality of mankind’s mania,
Drawn to the water’s stillness, its silence, to its blue

But the waves have torn off this false merman tale
And spat me out saltily to the sands above
Bidding me no mercy, no protection as the ancient whale

Waves a gentle goodbye – I bring my wet, wrinkled fingertips
To brush away these ocean-like teardrops.
I pluck away the barnacles like scabs that have to be compulsively picked

Off like a fish being scaled, flaked until it is merely flesh to be devoured.
I am no longer welcome to live in a world where there is only peace.
I stand naked in my vulnerability, left human after the sea has had me scoured.

I step out of the water and find footing on solid ground,
Gravity weighing heavy on these shoulders
Taking in the sights of the green earth and the sky’s musical sounds

Channeling the mighty thunder of the gods to stand tall, to stay afloat.
Even though, I fear the wind will whisk me away to mere particles of dust
As the hurricane makes splinters of a small, wooden fishing boat.

I fear I would rather be splintered in the sea.

Garden of the Gods

I stand upon this rock where we had our second date,
then both spent and energized from lovemaking,
Dazed by the camel-shaped formation, the gods’ fate

that brought us here, miles from any sound but these beating hearts,
longing to be lost in each other’s touch again,
we climbed higher, fell deeper, believing we would never part

but as the space between the camel’s hump and its head grows,
so does the space between us now, both physical and beyond,
this space, this emptiness, this forest full of woes.

Every year someone falls to their death –
Dazed by the dizzying distance below, I find my footing,
pondering what hope for us there is left.

Charles K. Carter is a queer poet and educator from Iowa. He shares his home with his artist husband and his spoiled pets. He enjoys film, yoga, and live music. Melissa Etheridge is his ultimate obsession. He holds an MFA in writing from Lindenwood University. His poems have appeared in several literary journals. He is the author of Chasing Sunshine (Lazy Adventurer Publishing), Splinters (Kelsay Books), and Salem Revisited (WordTech Editions).

owego poem, from a great distance

or all of us fucked like
dogs in the rain or maybe just
some of us beaten with
the myth of god

or of us raped but
all of us left for dead and
did you come to this town knowing
all doors would be locked
against you?

were you given a shovel and
a reason to dig?

a child of your own to break?

there is never any pain so
private it cannot be shared with
those who hate you most

for kristen, who got there first

and here we are wrapped tight in
the laughter of dead men
shooting their guns at the sky

here we are saying we are here
with our maps drawn in the sand

with the house not quite level
after 100 years of civil war

pictures falling from cracked walls

baby with a mouthful of
broken glass and
the trick of course is
to separate the symbol from
                   the symbolized

the reality is that a clenched fist
has no value in an empty room

your god has no purpose
in a kingdom of corpses

paint his picture on whatever
holy surface you can find
and all it does is fade

xochiquetzal

dull pewter skies and five below
zero when we get the news of picasso’s death and
then we are stoned when we hear about his
                                             lover’s suicide

ground too hard to start digging graves,
so i am swimming in your blood

you are drowning in my arms

subtle addictions and the frost that
crawls through our veins and
was i whole before i met you?

did he understand the trail of
wreckage his life would produce?

probably
and he probably didn’t care and
we are too wired to sleep when his
widow puts the gun to her head

i am happy for the gift of absolution and
                        you are begging for more

pale sunlight though a haze of
january sky and we were laughing
at the idea of true love or i thought
maybe you were crying

thought you understood i
would always fail you in the end

the enigma in shades of grey on grey

set fire to the air
in the dead man’s house

make sure

says everything is okay, says
this is just a dream within a dream,
but i have my doubts

i have stood on the river’s surface
on the coldest day of the year,
have looked down to watch the hands
pushing upward with diminishing strength

i have been god in the
truest sense,
but i prefer drugs

i prefer sex

pain and suffering on a human level
mixed with my father’s disapproval over
every choice i’ve ever made and
what i tell him that standing still isn’t an option,
                                                  he calls me a liar

when i talk about the future, he
puts the barrel of the gun in his mouth and
this is how we spend our last
fifteen years together

this is life in the kingdom of crows

i get married

learn to crawl blind through
any number of deserts of my own making,
but i hang onto this image of you from
when we were young

i hang onto
the idea of free will

the inevitability of a
diminished future

i will find you there and sing
bitter songs of hope
before the story ends

phantom hope

a million miles of static on
pilate’s radio but the asshole wants to dance

tells you the crucifixion is
all in your mind

says it’s a waste of time
being in love with an addict

thirty years and nothing to show for it but
cold sunlight down early morning streets

st elizabeth on her hands and knees
and crawling into the ocean in
some warmer corner of the world

silver chains and a cross of
gold and what if she can’t
remember her child’s name?

what if every moment is
the one that matters most?

you stumble through each one blind
only to end up lost

only to end up holding your
father’s ashes
in the middle of the freeway

a million miles of static in every
direction and that fucker judas with
his hand up your lover’s skirt

with his teeth filed down to
chrome points and his
tongue dripping poison

gives us all one last kiss
then says goodbye

John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the continuous search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest poetry collections include Heathen Tongue (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions) and A Flag On Fire is a Song of Hope (2019 Scars Publications).

Manhattan

lack of grass–
a poodle shits
on sidewalk

Cocaine

I am too scared to snort
so I lick powder off the blade–
it numbs my mouth. I want to
trust you when you say
there will come no harm
my way but I’d rather ingest
rust. My lungs already cold
in gentle snowfall. And
I worry about the heart.
Why does it feel like
impending illness
when all I want to
do is snort-laugh
with you all through
the night?

To Sara (From DQ)

Wouldn’t call myself wild. Wouldn’t last a day–
before you, another home I thought’d be forever.

Some call my eyes crystal but I couldn’t predict
a future outside the shelter. I was scared yet still

nomadic to a fault– too eager to attach, I now
purr from afar– me, on a pillow on the carpet,

you, sipping coffee on the couch– just to say
I see you, I want to go there, just not yet.

I will never detail my past, its unimaginable
happenings that make me want to spill Cabernet

glasses, scatter shards of red on tile. I’m learning
to be comfortable in my surroundings, to love

and welcome love by others in this space. I leap
atop the cabinets to walk into your world, observe.

And at night I wait for you to lay in bed when,
at last, I can rest on your chest, close my eyes,

and be.

Buzz Burn

glass of prop champagne could
be a three thousand dollar shot

I can’t pay these costs the
moving parts all I want

is to buy you liquor an
André for us to drink

such fine and cheap champagne
in front of the camera I turn

to improv heroes and beg to
break the bottle I am stuck inside

of work yet warm in winter when
the bottle breaks I always crave

Shadows

we are shapeshifters we believe
in the magic of night we blend
into shadows no one knows our
lust ogling us glowing knowing
yellow eyes watchful this world
we make our decisions the love
we choose to give and leave (oh,
the love we leave) in the light we
thought would blend into other
light but that is not the way the
sun operates it glints off car hot
metal to momentarily blind you
back into the shadows

James Croal Jackson (he/him) is a Filipino-American poet. He has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and poems in Capsule Stories, SHARK REEF, and Ghost City Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry. Currently, he works in film production in Pittsburgh, PA.

Grow the Fruit

Some grew the fruit,
some paint it.
Some grew the fruit.
Some eat it.

Hard at work with
the harsh sun
at their back, the
workers toil.

The painter at
his workplace
or her workplace,
paints away.

The hungry with
the money
to afford it,
enjoy it.

The going gets
tough and the
worker applies
his and her

skill to make the
fruit grow and
gathers it for
consumption.

The painter takes
a brush to
the canvas and
makes it live,

the fruit from the
fields, from the
vine; anoints it
with colour.

The consumer
buys it at
the price that he
or she can

afford. The fruit
is sweet and
delicious,
and filling.

Poetry is
like fruit. It
can rot on the
page or be

the nourishment
the soul needs.
It satisfies
and provides.

Keep Your Balance

You try to keep your balance
as you are faltering
between vertigo and confusion
as a shower of light
washes out your eyes. The day
becomes night, you remain
clouded in your mind. You see
no clarity in the darkness
that rests in your soul. You seek
out the sun and the sweetness
of fruit. You keep your balance
tethering on the head of a pin.
You pray the year brings good
luck. You are daydreaming. You
are coming out of the abyss.
You believe the fortune cookie
and the wise words it chose just
for you. You are the river. You are
the chosen one. You are like the
tree with the sweetest fruit.

Hammer, Nail, and Wood

While we sleep
the hammer is at play,
nail and wood,
the hammering sounds,
a house is being built.

Early in
the morning, the sun is
still asleep,
the hammer does what
hammers do, pounds away.

Wooden and
metal handle, steelhead,
hammer, nail,
and wood. Walls, windows, doors
and fences being built.